


the long drive, the coastline (oh, saturday sun)

by floweryfran



Series: do me wrong, do me wrong, do me wrong [2]
Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M, Spideytorch Week 2020, anywho back to the topic at hand, basically peter is ugly and johnny Loves That About Him, can you believe it? a happy fic? ME?, here's a nice reprieve on the sand though, i wanted to give them One Peaceful Day, johnny: i might lovingly drown you today, johnny: just for fun yknow?, my instinct is always to whump them, peter: heart eyes, sadder stuff will come soon, sources say it's questionable whether it'll ever be written, this inspired me to write a full vacation fic for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: Time is soupy, on the beach. A minute is an hour, but an hour passes with Johnny’s every blink. He thinks he naps a little. He reads a few pages ofThe Goblet of Fireand then puts it away. He listens to three songs and then gives up on that. Johnny’s elbows-deep in a Buzzfeed quiz that’s going to tell him which Panera bread bowl he is when one of Peter’s knobby hands reaches over and starts tugging halfheartedly on the waistband of Johnny’s swimsuit.Johnny feels a disgusting, terrible smile burst across his face. He’s despicable. He should be locked up for this.“Morning,” he says.Peter blinks a little, all cow-like hazel eyes and confused flush. He grunts, wrinkles his nose, and yawns enormously.Johnny needs to get his heart checked out, he thinks, because there’s something quite arrhythmic about it and he’s becoming worried about its function when he’s exposed to certain specific stressors. Stressors such as Peters. “Hey, ugly,” he says mushily.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Johnny Storm
Series: do me wrong, do me wrong, do me wrong [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848790
Comments: 45
Kudos: 163
Collections: SpideyTorch Week 2020





	the long drive, the coastline (oh, saturday sun)

**Author's Note:**

> for spideytorch week day three: photography! sort of. okay, not really, but bear with me.
> 
> also (again, if you squint) from a tumblr prompt that wanted spideytorch and peter not bringing enough layers somewhere & getting cold. i figure the beach suffices :')
> 
> title from saturday sun by vance joy! bc i like it!

Johnny thinks there is nothing quite like spending a day at the beach and leaving hours later considerably pinker, sleepier, and saltier than when he arrived. 

It’s something about the waves, maybe: the way they always crash. They’re unflinching, even when they pull away from the gentle curvature of the shore. When they recede, they return with vigor. They’re hungry. They’re angry, but they love the sand enough to reach for it with their every stuttered breath. They’re lungs and they’re livers and they’re alive, and a little part of Johnny yearns to be like that. 

But his current priority is to melt into the sand like a pad of high quality butter. 

So, instead of trying for some idle self-improvement, he lays flat on his back, towel scrunched under him, and stares at Peter where he lies belly-down and snoring beside him. It’s quite the vision: Peter’s cheek is squished against his shoulder and his back is all ruddy and olive-tan from the sun; his face is sleep-swollen and peeling over the nose; the puff of hair at the back of his head—that bit that’s eternally just-fucked-looking from being mushed inside his mask—is crunchy with dried salt. Johnny is fairly certain he’s drooling. 

It’s horrible. He’s the best thing Johnny’s ever seen. 

Johnny replaces his bucket hat atop his head, abandoning his relaxation efforts in favor of grabbing his phone. He takes a few photos of Peter looking like seagull shit splattered supine from the thin line of clouds overhead, then some closer ones that involve a lot of sneaky crawling and sand ending up in Johnny’s unmentionable areas. In glances: Peter’s heavily-lashed eye sitting above the inner corner of his elbow; the collection of five freckles near his wrist that goes darker in the sun; the curve of Peter’s back like the trunk of a proud tree—wizened and a little scoliotic from that time he broke his spine and it healed all funky. A collection of Peters that, when combined, make the image of Johnny’s stubborn heart. 

Johnny, once satisfied, lays back down, letting the sun bake him. He had intended to check his Twitter mentions, but it’s hard to focus on much of anything with the squawk of the gulls and the sweet, ringing laughter of children as they splash in the shallows.

By the looks of it, the beach is stiflingly hot. To Johnny, it’s pleasantly balmy. 

Of course, the surface of the sun would probably be pleasantly balmy to him, but knowing that doesn’t diminish his enjoyment of Montauk in mid-July. 

It’s not often he can steal Peter away from the city, even for the stretch of one Saturday. This is a gift. He’s meant to savor every moment. 

Even if Peter’s been sleeping for a good two hours now. 

Johnny might feel slighted by it if he weren’t so relieved. The last time he actually saw Peter sleep for more than an hour at a time had to be—well. Johnny doesn’t think he’s ever seen Peter sleep this long consecutively when not post-op and drugged to the tits. Peter needs to work himself to the point of absolute and utter exhaustion in order to make himself so much as climb into the sheets; Peter may not realize, but Johnny wakes up with every move of the mattress when Peter climbs out to suit up at twelve, and at three, and at five. 

Today, all it took to knock him out was some shower sex and a three-hour drive with the sun shimmering on the horizon. Johnny knows how to recognize a blessing. 

So the sleeping is good. The sleeping is _great._ Peter looks as defrosted as that terrible popsicle they put out of him a dozen years ago. It’s a wonder they never really picked up. Those gumball eyes saw and cataloged every one of Johnny’s sins. They still feature in his nightmares sometimes. 

Time is soupy, on the beach. A minute is an hour, but an hour passes with Johnny’s every blink. He thinks he naps a little. He reads a few pages of _The Goblet of Fire_ and then puts it away. He listens to three songs and then gives up on that. Johnny’s elbows-deep in a Buzzfeed quiz that’s going to tell him which Panera bread bowl he is when one of Peter’s knobby hands reaches over and starts tugging halfheartedly on the waistband of Johnny’s swimsuit. 

Johnny feels a disgusting, terrible smile burst across his face. He’s despicable. He should be locked up for this. 

“Morning,” he says. 

Peter blinks a little, all cow-like hazel eyes and confused flush. He grunts, wrinkles his nose, and yawns enormously. 

Johnny needs to get his heart checked out, he thinks, because there’s something quite arrhythmic about it and he’s becoming worried about its function when he’s exposed to certain specific stressors. Stressors such as Peters. “Hey, ugly,” he says mushily. 

Peter’s fingertip stays hooked in Johnny’s elastic. “Time is it?” he asks. It’s a lovely world indeed where Johnny gets to hear Peter’s sleepy voice. 

Johnny checks, then says, “Just after three. You can sleep more, if you’d like. I’m having a very intimate self-discovery session with Buzzfeed, so it’s not like I’m bored or anything. I don’t miss you. I didn’t even realize you were gone, actually.”

“Wasn’t gone,” Peter mumbles, eyelids fluttering. “Jus’ sleepin’.”

Johnny’s going to explode in a shower of death. And pain. O, woe is he. 

Peter retracts his finger from Johnny’s bathing suit in favor of sitting up, scooting onto Johnny’s towel, and leaning right into Johnny’s back. He’s heat-warm and smells like sleep sweat. His chin hooks over Johnny’s shoulder so he can read Johnny’s phone screen and his knees bump Johnny’s on either side of him. 

“Mmm,” Peter says. He turns his face into Johnny’s neck, his lips dragging against Johnny’s skin. “Bread. You’re a baja mac and cheese bread bowl. I’m telling you now, you don’t even need the stupid test. I’m smarter.”

Johnny hums, hiding a grin, and continues clicking through the questions. 

“I’m going to cause a scene if you don’t pay attention to me right now,” Peter mumbles. “Don’t think I won’t. I’ll start yelling random accusations. Why’d you steal my pet donkey, Johnny? Why’d you shatter all my highball glasses? Where are my teeth, Johnny?”

Johnny continues clicking calmly. Oh, he’s _for sure_ more of a Jennifer Garner in _Thirteen Going On Thirty_ than a Molly Ringwald in _Sixteen Candles._ Or is he a Winona as Veronica Sawyer in _Heathers?_ No, definitely not. He’s too sexy for murder. 

“I’ll do something really bold. I’m gonna pretend you got stung by a giant jellyfish and then pee on your leg completely unwarranted, and the lifeguards are gonna come to do first aid on you only to see you _weren’t_ actually stung by a jellyfish and I had just whipped out my Hebrew National to tinkle on you for the sake of the performance art.” 

At this, Johnny turns his face to press a kiss to the hinge of Peter’s jaw. “Shut up,” he says kindly. 

“Fine,” Peter mumbles. He nips at the junction of Johnny’s shoulder. 

“You’re sweaty,” Johnny tells him. “I think you should go take a swim. Do some laps. I’ll watch from over here because I don’t want to be seen within a cubic mile of the weirdo swimming laps in the Actual Atlantic Ocean, but really my spirit will be supporting you.”

“Come with me?” Peter asks. “I won’t swim laps. I’ll just try to drown you. Lovingly. An extremely affectionate, gentle drowning because I love you so much.”

“Fine,” Johnny sighs, because, really, Peter is giving him a lot here. He would’ve tagged along for a _You’re fine, I guess,_ or even a _Come as shark bait so I don’t get eaten,_ but that—well, that was about as nice as Peter gets with his pants on and dick tucked safely inside. Johnny would be stupid and also a fool to not take advantage. 

The water is cold enough that Peter yelps as it laps at his ankles. 

Johnny laughs because this is the sort of pain felt by Peter that is truly hilarious. 

“Warm it up,” Peter says. “C’mon, you’re torturing me here.”

“No,” Johnny says sweetly, walking backward into the waves, eyes locked on Peter’s hunched shoulders and surly scowl. 

“You know I can’t thermoregulate very well,” Peter says. “My fingers are going numb. I’m gonna become an icicle.”

“I’d still love you if you were an icicle,” Johnny says. The water reaches the level of his stomach, the waves hard against his back. 

Peter groans, kicking his feet through the shallows. A truly petulant child. 

“If you come over here, I’ll warm you up,” Johnny offers. 

Peter immediately smiles and starts crashing through the water with earnest, splashing everywhere and garnering quite a few derisive looks. His arms come up ahead of him and he latches onto Johnny with enough force that he knocks them both under the water. 

It’s shockingly cold and a little slimy. For a moment, Johnny misses the Pacific with an ache so strong it pulls behind his navel. 

Then he pops his eyes open, sees Peter with his cheeks puffed out to hold his breath and his hair floating around his head like a seaweed halo, and thinks he would rather be right here in this moment for the rest of his life than do anything else, ever. 

Johnny emerges from the water with a sputter, shaking his hair out of his eyes. His curls are gonna be so flat now. And crunchy. 

Peter comes up with a gasp, hair plastered over his eyes and trembling. “Warm me,” he demands. 

Johnny laughs a little, feeling strange. He reaches out to brush Peter’s bangs off his forehead, smoothing them down flat, away from his eyes, fingers careful. 

Peter goes quiet, looking at Johnny. Just looking. 

There’s something delicate in Johnny’s chest. He’s afraid if he moves too much, he’ll shatter it, Christmas tree baubles and crystal glasses filled with Prosecco bubbles. Sickly sweet. Ripe with intention. 

He leans in and leaves a kiss at the corner of Peter’s mouth before raising his temperature. The water around them goes warm. 

Peter stops trembling. A breath puffs out from between his loose lips. He hums a little. 

Johnny reaches a hand out and takes Peter’s wrist, pulling him closer. He’s all pounding pulse and stretches of lightly scarred skin. As fast as Peter heals, he gets sliced up again so quick that he stays perpetually puckered. Johnny doesn’t mind. Scars are sexy. 

Their chests bump. Johnny has to tilt his chin up to meet Peter’s eyes. It makes him feel little and stupid and safe. 

“Hey,” Peter breathes. 

Johnny winds his arms round Peter’s waist. He tightens his grip. 

He jerks hard to the left and shoves Peter unceremoniously under the waves. 

The all-out war that ensues is so reminiscent of the city-wide chases and web-versus-flame spats they used to have as teens that Johnny’s stomach aches with longing. They splash so much and yell so loud that the crowd grows sparse around them, mothers dragging their kids to the next lifeguard stand over by the strings of their boogie boards. 

Peter has this stupid habit of overshooting how much breath his lungs can hold before he dives and then popping up from under the waves, sputtering and choking like an idiot, looking like a drowned squirrel, laughing his head off with his eyes crinkled shut. (Johnny laughs along every time. He’s whipped. He can’t help it.) Peter spits out mouthfuls of water and shakes his head to get it out of his ears. He’s rabid. It’s unbelievable that May Parker did as good a job with him as she did; Peter is strange down to the blood racing through his veins. That Aunt May was able to taper that even slightly is nothing short of miraculous. 

By the time Peter grabs Johnny round the waist and manhandles him up and over the spread of his wide, sexy, torch-carrying shoulders, Johnny is well and truly tired. Still, he can’t help but let out a surprised little laugh at the treatment. At the blatancy. At how much love bubbles in his chest. 

Peter drops him down on his towel like a sack of potatoes. 

“Oof,” Johnny says exaggeratedly, rolling onto his side like he’s in pain. He’s not. He just likes having fun. 

Peter tosses himself down, half on top of Johnny, nosing into his throat. Johnny heats up to dry off, but Peter’s hair keeps dripping briny water down the sides of Johnny’s neck like little phantom kisses, and Johnny needs to make it stop before he does something stupid like pin Peter to the towel and beg to be taken. 

Johnny grabs an extra towel from his beach bag—he’s always prepared—and prods Peter in that hollow between either half of his ribcage. 

“Up,” he says. 

Peter squints an eye open, looking at Johnny. He sits. 

Johnny tosses the towel over Peter’s head. 

“Excuse me?” Peter asks pleasantly. 

Johnny snorts, then moves the towel from over Peter’s face. He picks up the corners and starts mopping up the little puddles of wetness in the corners and creases of him—the hollows under his eyes, the dip below his lower lip, the hard line above his brows. 

Johnny can’t help but recognize that the trouble with Peter isn’t just his cheekbones, or his veiny arms, or his rippling abs. It’s his crooked nose, and the way his overgrown hair curls in the sea salt, and the way he chews on the inside of his lip when he’s thinking. The trouble with Peter is that Johnny can be used to him, veins pounding with Peter-antibodies—anti-Peter-bodies?—and then Peter will turn around and smile at him and be so devastatingly beautiful that Johnny cannot speak for a whole minute. 

His heart twists like a stupid little friendship bracelet. 

Peter’s expression grows more open, as Johnny touches him. Johnny’s empty palm finds the side of Peter’s neck and just holds it, thumb skimming the bulge of his adam’s apple. 

When Johnny has finished drying Peter’s face, he rubs the towel over his salty curls. Peter’s nose scrunches and Johnny finds it to be immediately _terrible._ He kisses the bow of Peter’s lip to relieve the feeling. 

When he pulls away, Peter still has that weird look painted on. 

“What?” Johnny says, frowning. “What? Why do you have that face on your face?”

Peter smiles a little. “I just like lookin’ at you. I’m pretty lucky, Hot Stuff.” 

“You are,” Johnny agrees. 

Peter laughs. 

“I’m gonna bundle you up,” Johnny informs him, planting a hand on Peter’s belly and skimming his knuckles over the fine line of dark hair leading down towards his swimming trunks. “I’m gonna keep you super warm and comfy. Your lips are blue.”

“You think they taste like Jolly Ranchers?”

“Well, now that you’ve put the thought in my mind, I’ve gotta find out.”

Johnny kisses him. It’s short and chaste and flavored like sunscreen chapstick rather than blue raspberry, but a smile crosses Johnny’s lips nonetheless. 

He goes to collect his sweatshirt from his beach bag, then yanks it over Peter’s head. It’s a little too loose on Johnny but it fits Peter just right. 

It still gets caught on Peter’s big ears while Johnny pulls it into place. That means everything is right in the world. 

God. Johnny’s so full of Peter: armfuls and camera-rolls-full and chest so full of it he might just drop dead. 

Peter takes Johnny by the chin and kisses him once more, soft. 

“You’re the worst human,” Johnny says, smiling so hard he can feel his eyes crinkle up. 

“Not as terrible as you,” Peter replies. 

Johnny laughs. Absolutely everything in this life is good, so long as Peter’s in arm’s reach. 

**Author's Note:**

> i told you it wasn't really photogrsphy dfdjksdfg thank you for sticking with me anyway <3
> 
> much love for everyone hanging out with me this week! if you're new, hi! my name is fran! i'm 20 and italian and stressed! i hope you are so safe and healthy! 
> 
> let me know what you thought! let me know what you want to see when this week is over! punch me in the face if you want!


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